This one moment, I'll have it
by gustin puckerman
Summary: In which Mark is tired, and Steph Rogers is there when he least expects her to. ―Genderswapped!Maria/Steve. Post CA: The Winter Soldier. Oneshot.


**Genderswaps are fun. Imaginations are fun**.

...

**This one moment, I'll have it**.

Flights have always seem endless.

He doesn't necessarily like them. But then again, he doesn't like a lot of things. So he supposes it shouldn't matter. He's going to complain anyway, in his head most probably, but he grunts and groans and hums pitifully to show how unamused he is. Because he is. Because he's Mark Hill, and it's such a shitty day and why does two-three hours flight delays always nearly happen to him?

(He likes to say that life's unfair, but he pisses life's off so many times now that he's wearing a SI badge instead of SHIELD's. He learns to back off when he isn't warrant into.)

He is tired, yes. Wary too. But he's not _stupid_.

The moment he walks into his lone, dark apartment, he knows to keep a gun under his coat, to yawn as smoothly as Mark Hill would, to act like he hadn't known that his house has been breached― broken into. But he smells something fresh and spicy ―_food?_― the coffee, he hears, are brewing. The radio's on, too. That stupid old thing.

"It's okay." She says. "It's just me."

Steph. He allows an exhale of relief to escape from the slip between his lips, but doesn't exactly put his gun away until she stands right in front of him ― from her tall structure, and defining jaw; golden curls of hair, and bright rosy cheeks ― just to proof that she's real, all body and flesh and blood, and not somewhere off-coast in the North of Russia, hiding from who-knows-what and running to who-knows-where. At least he knows now which news to trust based on the intelligence gathering, and which is not.

He narrows his eyes to the kitchen. "You're sure full of subtlety, Rogers."

Had she been cooking? She must have.

God, he hadn't eaten in, what? 12― 13 hours? He's starving.

But he's not going to admit that.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He tucks his gun behind, moves to put his coat on a chair. She's walking into the kitchen, begin to illuminate the lamps hence washing his usually empty apartment with bright lights. (He usually keeps one or two open. He doesn't use his apartment too much. To shower, sleep, maybe watch a little TV. That's about it.) He takes his time to adjust ― to the light, the sound of the kitchen being used, the song that he doesn't outrightly recognise from the radio that he doesn't know still _exist_. He still isn't sure if he likes it, this sudden change, at this sudden hour, but he definitely won't voice it out. "Where's Wilson?"

"DC."

"What are you doing here in New York?" He asks, squinting his eyes and watches her figure moves. In front of him, on one of the unused chairs, sits the almighty shield, the white star mocking him relentlessly that he can't look at it for more than three seconds. (It reminds him of the first time she's on that Helicarrier, lurking and young and oh-so-confused.)

"We decided to take a break. For now." She looks relaxed, or doing a hell of a job of acting like it, but Mark doesn't missed the stillness in her answer― the hard swallow she takes afterwards. (Even though, yes, her _back_ is to him on the moment.) Mark grunts some more, opening up the cuffs on his wrists. He doesn't ask about Barnes. Not now.

"So, you decided to drop into my apartment instead of the Tower?"

She should know that Toni would've accepted her without a hitch ― that woman is unbearable, but resourceful. And the Tower must been a more safer environment for a costumed superhero to _drop_ in from out of nowhere at two o'clock in the morning without a warning whatsoever. Mark thinks momentarily about the paperworks he'll be dealing with the next day now that Captain America's back in town― all of the legal documents just to make sure she's not prosecuted along with Sam Wilson for all of the... _trouble_ they've caused a few months back.

He sighs.

She shuffles, giving him a sourly smile. She's tired, he could see, but not entirely not-genuine. "I don't think I can handle Stark's question at this hour."

He wants to narrow his eyes towards her ―_not good enough of an answer, Rogers_― but decides to grunt instead. _Whatever_.

"I think I'll take a shower. I stink." He tells her as he strides himself to his personal bedroom, ruffling his already messy hair from the long-hour flight, or what feels like it.

"Uh." Steph starts, hesitating. "Are you going to eat dinner?"

_I thought you'd never ask!_ He gives her a long look, flicking his silver eyes down to the plates she's serving. "Sure," he shrugs, and finally, decides to voice out, "I'm starving."

"Okay," he hears her whisper nearly soundly under her breath but he leaps off even before he could consider how _weird_ it is that he actually doesn't mind she's here, of all places. He likes her, that he's known for a bit now― but it couldn't possibly more out of respect, right? _Right?_

He takes a shower, as best as he could, already plotting to mess with his bed and dose off until morning. He manages to clear off any morning meetings and appointment, just so he could ready himself in a way that only he could pull off, and walk into the office as though he's never left it. Pepper would've been proud. Or at least, glad to see him in one piece. Vincent "Pepper" Potts had never been proud of the fact that Mark's a ―what's the ludicrous word again? Oh yes, right― _workaholic_. But he's a friend ―as weird as it is― and Mark knows by heart that Pepper would be more than happy to arrange another brunch with him.

Just as he shrugs himself into a plain shirt ―that has a faded print of J-O-N-A-S-B-R-O-T-H-E-R-S in block letters (a gift personally from Barton that meant to be a joke)― and finally remembers that he has a guest.

Right.

"Something smells good," he tells lamely, walking out of his room with the towel draping over his shoulders. Steph looks up immediately at the sound of his voice, a pleasant smile gracing her already seemingly-perfect features.

No wonder even Thirteen's got a crush on this one.

Mark grunts some more.

Steph gives him his plate and he takes a chair to sit, while looking back at her straight posture that's leaned back against the bar counter. She has a beer in her hand, that he supposes must've been equivalent to a bottle of plain water, since, you know, she doesn't get drunk ―hah! Good for her― and stares into a spot on the floor. Mark doesn't want to interrupt whatever process of melancholy thoughts she must've been interpreting, so he goes ahead and enjoys the pasta that she's served.

It's really good.

"Sam taught me. The recipe." She says suddenly, after twenty minutes of silence passes, and the radio melts into the fifth song since he's gone out of shower. "You think that's good? You should've eaten what _she'd_ cooked."

He doesn't comment on the fact that she's making it seems as though Captain America and Falcon had been swapping kitchen recipes the entire time they're on the run.

He didn't missed the slight falter to her expression.

He swallows, re-considers and exhales. "Steph?"

"We didn't find her." She blurts out all too suddenly, and closes her eyes. "We couldn't― Nathan told me it wasn't going to be easy. But I thought, you know. I thought that at least she would've―" She stopped then, ducking her head so strands of golden twirls fall by her face like waterfall. She looks pathetic. "We couldn't even find a _trace_ of her."

"She's a good little ghost then." He remarks off-handedly.

She spares him what might appears to be a glare.

He shrugs his shoulder. "C'mon, Rogers, you can't expect―"

"She's my _best_ friend, Mark. I know she's not― but."

He stares at her, for a very long time. Then, sighs and says, "She's trying to find her place in this world. Her _rightful_ place." He slowly puts the plates into the sink, turning the tap on to wash whatever remnants of food that manages to plaster itself against his nails. "Just as you were," he pauses, then corrects himself, "As you _are_. And when she's ready, because she _will_ remember, she'll come back to you. Things like this..." Mark exhales out heavily, looks away. (He's not good at this sentimental speech, okay?) "It has a way of coming back, you know? It'll be fine. _You're_ going to be fine."

She gives him this type of looks like she's uncertain, but Mark's passed his quota on giving any reasonable pep talk a long time ago (plus, he's never been good at this?) and goes ahead to settle himself some nice coffee. Or ―yes, he wants to sleep, so― a tea would be nice.

"I have a guest room. Well, more of a like― a storage room. I don't use it much. But Barton uses it whenever she comes over. So, yeah. You could― use it, if you want." Obviously he can't have Captain America sleeping on the couch, now could he? What kind of a man would he be? Even from here, he could imagine Nathan snorting sarcastically at that.

"Yes. I― I know." Steph says more, quiet for a while. "Thank you."

"Make yourself at home." He says casually, or not. He can't tell now. The long, endless journey's finally taken its toll on him. How wonderful.

"Business trip?"

It takes him a while to realise _she's_ asking him that question. "Huh?" He shakes his head, puts his mug on the table and scraps his fingers against his scalp. "No." He answers, yawns a bit. "No. I took some, uh―" He smacks his lips, "Personal leaves."

The frown on her expression is disturbing. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry, Cap. It's nothing I can't handle." He sighs then, rubs at his shoulder.

"Was it―"

"No. I told you. It's not― _business_. Not HYDRA, not Stark Industries." He waits for a second, then decides to go ahead and just, "It's just―" he shrugs, "It's Chicago."

"Chicago?"

"I was born there. Uh―" He bites his tongue and gradually serves up his own tea, making sure to open up the right cabinets so she would know where to take the stuff if she's ever, you know, thirsty or something. "My mother, I. I don't know her― she passed away when she was giving birth to me."

He glances at her, but only for a second. She looks regretful, which doesn't surprise him, to hear this.

Nobody likes the awful truth, after all.

"Yesterday was my birthday."

The silence that hangs afterward is heavy, but nothing Mark hasn't dealt with before. He sighs at the awkwardness, wondering again why had he allowed himself to share such― such _thing_ with her. It's not that he doesn't trust her ― she's Captain goddamned America after all ― but. He doesn't like to bring it up, you know? And it's not like― it's not like it _matters_.

(It matters to him, sure. But to her? She's got so much more problems to handle than his. So.)

"I'm..." She starts off, awkwardly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah." He tells her. "Everybody is."

He doesn't mean to sound mean, or rude. He's just― well, he's tired. By the looks that he's given her, he hopes that she could forgive him. For the night, maybe. He means, he forgive _her_ for trotting into his apartment and makes it― makes it look like it's an actual _used_ apartment. "I start work tomorrow, though." He informs her, though he doesn't know why. "So, everything's fine."

"Right."

"Speaking of work, I've got some legal documents we need to go through with you returning back. Every intelligence agency is coming after your ass, Cap, and ―as it has always been― I have to make sure that, that doesn't happen." He pauses for a while, and hooks a small grin by one edge of his lips. "After all, what would Toni _ever_ do without you?"

She smiles at that, beautifully. "Thank you. I never―" She pauses, "You've done _so_ much, Mark. Even when― SHIELD's gone, and." She stops, smiles a little again.

He nods and doesn't deny her. "It's what I signed up for."

She stares at him, and there's something more to her eyes. Something he can't ultimately read.

"I need to sleep." He announces, then bounces to his bedroom. "If you need anything―"

"Yeah. I know what to do." She grins a little, and he's so out of it that he thinks she might be teasing. Captain America. Teasing. _Wow_.

"I know you do, Cap." He says without facing back and ruffles his hair again.

Man, he's so tired.

"Mark?"

He stops just by his door and faces her, forcing his silver eyes to meet her blue ones. And she smiles, gentle and careful, and, he guesses, sincere, and Mark refuses to acknowledge the butterfly that's eating on his stomach. Wait. Not eating. _Fluttering_. Whatever. (See? Super tired.) "Happy birthday."

He blinks. Once, twice.

Of course _she_ would wish him.

"Yeah," he tells her, meaning it. "Thank you."

She smiles just a bit more.

(He guesses it's not so much of a bad night after all.)


End file.
